The news talks about nothing else: the Pope is coming soon. We citizens who pay our taxes will lay out a red carpet for him because blessing the new cross of the Sagrada Família is apparently very important. A man arrives, a simple man, to whom millions of people, as human as he is, attribute some kind of power beyond what the rest of us earthlings have, and the city must bow at his feet. It must be that we always need someone to adore: Bad Bunny, Rosalía, the Pope, Lamine Yamal. The Pope, by the way, completely refutes the premise of gender deconstruction theories according to which a male wearing skirts and dresses is the antithesis of patriarchal power and is subversive, and I don't know how many more inventions we owe to the also revered, almost sanctified, Judith Butler. There are plenty of men in robes who, unfortunately, do not represent any subversion of the performative mandates assigned to their sex (because the mandates are for us) nor, of course, do they constitute any opposition to the misogynistic order. Quite the contrary, if I think of men who don't wear pants, it turns out they are holy men with the most masculine power: bishops, imams, priests, monks of all kinds.

That Nadal doesn't go to school causes immense sadness. Why, for some strange reason of "respect for diversity" misunderstood, are children denied the chance to know the shepherd boy, the shepherdess Catalina, the mule and the ox, the singing angels, good Joseph, the boy, the raisins and the figs, the little hen, or the little devil? No, there are no Advent calendars, no Three Kings, no whistle, no puppy's woof, and no chick's chirp. No, none of these will go to school, nor will they go to Bethlehem, to Bethlehem, please.